


"I'm Not In Love"

by dame_ordsmeden



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Frustration, I Don't Even Know, Mild Smut, Porn with some plot, Pre-Canon, Sexual Frustration, Sif wanted me to write this, Some feels, door sex, heat-wave-Loki-trope, pwsp, thunderstorm sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame_ordsmeden/pseuds/dame_ordsmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki and Sif’s relatively ‘new’ relationship hits its first snag – a heat wave. <br/>Sif ruminates on what exactly is going on with her, with them – and gets frustrated. In all kinds of ways. <br/>And because she’s not a ‘sit-and-do-nothing’ type, she fixes it. Smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I'm Not In Love"

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, hi! So, yeah – this is the first of those other one-shot plot bunnies that took up residence in my brain. This is also, quite honestly, the first non-first person p.o.v. I’ve written that… works, well enough to share (massive kudos to my sister for the confidence boost!!!)  
> If one wanted to place this inside my series ‘My Love Walks’, it’s the midsummer after ‘Velvet’. 
> 
> I own nothing, save for (maybe) the breaths between the words.

_"…i’m not in love, mmnhmmm it’s because…_

_ooh you’ll wait a long time for me_  
ooh you’ll wait a long time…"  


_( _Tori Amos, covering 10cc’s “I’m Not In Love”_ )  
_

 

 

 

A week without seeing him is too long.

Two weeks of this heat wave without him, is cruelty - cruelty to her mind and body. Her own hands against skin are too hot, too rough, too callused in the wrong places. Touch brings no real relief, just a build – layer upon layer of frustrated _want_ that makes a cruel mockery of _his_ touch, his tongue, his fingers… 

It’s not enough.

 

It had been before this, before him. Oh, there had been others - no more than a handful - all of them competent lovers; one in particular who’d been… _caring_ enough to concern himself with her pleasure. Yet no other she’d taken to her bed has left her so satiated and desirous in the same breath. She wants to be angry at that; but cannot _by the Norns_ figure out why she isn’t.

She does not think love should feel like this, so she doesn’t call it that. Love should be… softer and sweeter, somehow. This _need_ is all edges and teeth, gnawing low in her belly. Nothing like the examples of love around her: Volstagg and his wife, the King and Queen, the married warriors who bring their ladies to feasts and court functions.

But it has been only the turn of two seasons they’ve shared this… whatever this is. All she knows is sometimes there is such a beauty and grace about him as he moves in her that she cries.

 

Maybe, maybe _that_ is love. A surrender that possesses. A weakness that strengthens.

 

In this present string of nights with an empty bed, though? It just feels like an addiction.

 

She’s not certain how she feels about that. She does not know how to feel about it, how she should feel about it. And in the merciless heat, she’s not sure she even cares. Should that frighten her? 

But she is War. She shows fear to no one, even herself. If it is there, she bites it back with the moans she _wants_ to let go but won’t in the absence of his sound-sealing spell over the room.

 

It’s still not enough.

Why did this change? Can she, by force of will, change it back? She tries, over and again that second week; tries _different_ means of pleasuring herself: in her bath, on her balcony under cover of darkness, even once in the small chamber she’s granted just off the training yards (… _to preserve her ‘modesty’. She laughs inwardly at the thought - as the back of one hand meets teeth, the other slipping, slipping, hot and fast and slick and chasing, chasing that perfect toes-curling-in-boots exhalation…_ ).   


In the end, Sif knows it will only spend her – and leave her still wanting. Hungering.

 

* 

 

The start of the third week of oppressive heat is what breaks her. 

 

Dark, so dark already - yet barely past dusk, under cloud cover that has built the last few hours… A storm is coming, she knows – can almost taste the shift in the air, so subtle but _there_ , just _there_ hovering on the edge of sensation. He must feel it too, he _has to_ , has to know the damned heat is almost at an end. 

Heat that has driven him to the dark of his chambers, claiming ‘spellwork’ – but she knows, she _remembers_ a summer when they were still young ( _gangly things, lacking grace_ ) that heat like this had built, days on end – and he’d fallen ill… ( _passed out on the training yard, a cloud of fine dust rising from the drop of his body to the ground. Sweat had run from him in rivulets, left the dust a rime sticking to his face and shirt. His skin gone impossibly pale…_ )

She _remembers_. And she suspects this is the truth of his absence; because spellwork would not be enough to keep him from her bed for this long. 

 

 

Clad only in a robe, she slinks through halls that should, she firmly believes, have others walking them. The palace is oddly quiet; maybe, maybe they are all aware of the wind about to shift. Maybe they see folly in movement tonight… but she cannot be still. Bare feet skim over stone floors in the gallery that leads to the royal suites; stone that radiates so much warmth she _swears_ the air just above it ripples and distorts like water. A pause at one cross-hallway, listening _hard_ for guards, for servants, for any other sound but the fantastic roar of her own blood. Again, and again – a held breath as she ducks into an alcove, avoiding the sweep of guards.

And then – the last cross-hallway. She is free now, free to _run_. Each slap of her foot against the floor (cooler here, for staying shaded all day) is a kiss, a beat, a jolt of something wild as his eyes in the throes of surrender to her. She knows his ward-spells will allow her entrance; does not even break stride as she throws the full weight of her body into opening his door. Slinging it closed behind her, pressing back against the smooth wood she _wants_ to call out, announce her presence.

But what she does \- is _shiver_.

Not because the room is noticeably colder than the hall (it is, a small part of Sif’s mind registers this), but because he steps from the doorway to his bath, naked and dripping wet. ‘ _Norns, please not a fever…_’ is the only other thought she completes before he’s crossed the room, cold hands ( _so_ cold, she shivers again) coming up to cup her cheeks, eyes that are distinctly green tonight searching her face.

 

“Are you _mad_?” he asks laughingly, before denying her answer with a soft kiss.

 

Soft is not what she came here for. Wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him back against her, she returns his kiss brutally: his lower lip between her teeth, something like a growl in her throat, one bare leg slipping out of the robe and up the outside of his – inside of her thigh coming to rest against his hip. He’s _cold_ , so deliciously cold against her; his hands fallen to her shoulders. They slide down, coming to rest on the curve of her ass while she kisses at his jaw, tugs at his hair and forces her way to his throat. “Three. Weeks. Alone.” is the extent of her vocabulary, each word punctuated by a rolling thrust of her hips.

“Not… quite…” and he means to say more, but her lips have found that place on his neck which tends to make him lose a degree of coherence. She smiles to herself, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise as he curses under his breath. This close, his pale skin (starting to warm now, slightly) is a map of blue veins she could trace with her tongue, that she would willingly follow - anywhere… One of his hands has come back up her side, thumb rubbing a delicious sensation across her nipple. Chill touch, smooth fabric, a friction that isn’t friction…

“ _More_.” Her lips insist this against the hollow of his throat, releasing his hair and pressing his palm to her breast, forcing him to grip her robe and pull it away. Finally, _finally_ he understands, or surrenders, or accedes. Whichever it is does not matter; only his mouth, his teeth, his hands _everywhere_. One of them under her, pulling her hips up; her ankles crossing behind him. The other reaching down between them - a dance of cold fingertips leaving her gasping. His hardening length (the _only_ warm thing about him) twitching under her as he angles her hips. Breath knocked from her lungs at the first thrust, so _forceful_ she feels the door shift behind her.

Raw. This is what she’s built up these weeks; an absolute feral _raw_ need. And now, each thrust into her strips away – no, _obliterates_ a layer of that want. The back of her head hits the door and she. doesn’t. care. She won’t last long enough to care, and neither will he – trying to set a rhythm, he falters slightly again and again.

“You’re… so… _wet_ …” he stammers, low and guttural in her ear. It overloads her senses: those three words; that tone of voice. _So close, so close, so close_ becomes a mantra that she’s not sure is all in her head. Crossing her arms around his neck, she reaches for his shoulder-blades and rakes blunted fingernails across them. He _moans_ … and the uncoiling energy _snaps_ in her, head falling back and eyes rolling up… his hand catching her head pulls gently forward and down, nestling her face to his neck even as her climax brings his, blinding-bright and harder than he has ever, maybe. He stills; the little motions of her hips almost more sensation than he can withstand…

Blinding? No, that was…

The crack of thunder is heavy, rattling the doors to his balcony. Another flare of lightning follows - casting an eerie glow across the room. Sif uncrosses her ankles, sliding limply down his body and finding her feet. He still has one arm around her waist, the other clutching her head to his neck. She nuzzles there, sweetly – then _bites_ him; a gentle nip that says she’s _still_ not satisfied.

“ _Perhaps_ we should sequester ourselves more often, hmm?” he asks, a gentle joke. He means no harm, but she tenses and pulls away. He lets her - but takes her hand, leading her over to the windowed balcony doors. Lightning flashes over and again, each time bringing her eyes into sharp focus. Pupils still blown wide, amber barely evident in a thin ring, he imagines his mirror hers quite well. Her jaw tenses, and she turns to face the storm. The first belt of rain lashes the glass, pinging and casting strange shadows on her skin with the next flare. He reaches for her shoulder, but she shrugs his hand away.

“Sif?”

“No, we shouldn’t.”

He cocks an eyebrow, his question already forgotten in the haze of pleasure. “Shouldn’t what?”

“We _shouldn’t_ sequester ourselves. Ever.” Her voice has gone tense as her posture. He reaches out again, and she wheels around, knocking his hand away. “You’ve been here – _right here_ – in the palace. I know we’ve been separated this long once already, but you were _away_. Somehow that made it different. I have no explanation. You were _right. Here._ And I couldn’t see you, or touch you, and it was too much. I needed you.”

All he can do is draw a slightly stunned breath before she’s wrapped her arms around him, his thigh pressed between hers. She kisses him, and the emotions she pours into it hit as hard as the wind-driven rain. Wrapping his arms around her in return – _gently_ – he realizes what a mess his pride has wrought: in his sickness, he even closed off his dreams to her. Fabricated excuses for his absence. All to avoid any perception of weakness…

Breaking the kiss, she presses her cheek to his heartbeat.

“I need you. I _need_ you.” She hates the sound of her voice, in that moment. Raw, in a damnably girlish way – and she is _not_ that. Not a simpering creature.

“I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t working-”

“I know. I remember the time years ago, we had heat such as this.” His eyes narrow briefly in frustration; and nimble fingers sweep damp hair away from her forehead, tracing the curve of her ear.

“Two weeks of cold baths does tend to temper one’s desire, love.” She laughs lightly, sliding one hand around to his hip. Her fingertips trace the arc of bone beneath muscle, then trail down the valley just above his thigh. He’s warmed now, as warm as Loki ever is. Teasing through the whorls of dark hair, she palms him not-quite gently – and his knees shake.

“We should… retire.”

Her reply is a drop to _her_ knees, a lick that is a lightning bolt in reverse – _up_ his thigh from knee to hip. She can taste them both on his skin where she’d pressed up against him, salty and tangy and a richer flavour than _anything_ … his knees start to give, but he catches himself with hands on her shoulders.

“Sif? Bed. _Now_.”

She hazards one more lick as she stands, allowing him to lean on her heavily as he sways a bit.

“The rain’s almost stopped.” She reaches for the balcony door; throws it open to the drizzle and the cool, damp night air. “Why not here, love?”

She watches him close his eyes and inhale deeply, a small smile playing at his lips. He cocks his head, snaps his fingers – extinguishing all light in the room. There is only weak moonlight and even weaker starlight filtering through the dispersing clouds, but it is enough for her to see the hunger writ plain across his face.

“Sif?”

“Mmm?”

“I need you, too.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not terribly proud of this, and not certain it's as good as other things I've written - but here it is. :)
> 
> Kudos and comments/feedback/reviews always welcomed, and thoroughly encouraged!


End file.
